


In Loving Memory

by AphroditesTummyRolls



Series: To Be Human [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Crusades mention, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Getting emotional about Borders bookshops, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nicky and Joe help Nile learn to be immortal, Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Friendship, Nile Freeman & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Friendship, Nile Freeman Needs a Hug, Nile and Andy come to Malta, Nile's Dad and Brother and Family, Nile's Mom - Freeform, THERE IT IS WHY ISN'T THIS A RELATIONSHIP TAG?, WTF, and Feed My Soul, continuation of Brother of My Heart and Sono Qui, how to change without forgetting, if you're feelin saucy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditesTummyRolls/pseuds/AphroditesTummyRolls
Summary: After Dad died, her pastor had said that grief was natural. That it would hurt for a while, and then it would become waves, washing over you until they petered out to a faint trickle. Grief only got further away, eventually leveling out— until another tide swept in. It never healed, grief wasn’t meant to heal.Her pastor said that that was where God’s guidance came in. That He would help ease Nile’s heart, and remember her Dad— his smile, his laugh, the sound of Marvin Gaye through the staticky radio, dancing with Mom on a random Tuesday before he shipped out again.She still remembered those things, so clearly.Nile paused in the street, taking a deep breath of the sea salt on the breeze. Now her whole life was something she grieved, it would get further away. What if she didn’t want it to fade? She'd rather miss them all forever than forget them. Like Andy had
Relationships: Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova & Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nile Freeman & Joe (THIS ISN'T A TAG EITHER???), Nile Freeman & Nicky (Why is THIS not a tag, but Nile & Nicky & PEETA MELLARK is???
Series: To Be Human [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887949
Comments: 63
Kudos: 258





	In Loving Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I love the beginning of this, but I'm still not sure about the rest of it. If you like it, please tell me <3 it lets me pretend i have serotonin. 
> 
> There are parts of this that I put my backstory for Nicky and Joe into practice-- the backstory that's in A Man Like That, my origin story for our boys-- and im very proud of it. Nicky's mom as a plot point is not going to be fleshed out for a LONG TIME though, and i wanted to write about it haha I love my backstory for nicky it makes me so happy. Everything in here is obsessively researched, don't get pretentious in my notes please <3 
> 
> Okay. And. Yeah, i forgot the other things I was gonna say (my brain is a sieve), so enjoy friends! Comment if you like it.

The wind whipped up off the water, cold and salty despite the way the sun beat down on them. It was alright, honestly— refreshing after all those stuffy hours in the car. 

These immortals were highly resistant to normal modes of transport. Like a plane— a real passenger plane, not a Russian cargo plane full of drugs. It was all cars and boats and trains, low to the ground, literally under the radar. 

Nile understood why. She didn’t want to end up strapped down to a lab table like the one they escaped all those months ago. She’d just rather take a nice plane from the closest airport to Provence and get to Valletta in a matter of hours, rather than drive through three countries and all the way down the Italian boot, just to bribe a fishing boat. 

She had to admit, at least, no matter how long it took to get there, that it was beautiful. So, _so_ beautiful. It was no wonder that Joe and Nicky loved it here, the streets practically sang their names. Pale, gracefully arched baroque buildings were reflecting the sun’s summer light, standing starkly against the backdrop of bright blue sky. It smelled like clean ocean salt and fresh bread and tangerine peels. It was early. Early on a Sunday morning, and the wide avenues were almost completely empty— quiet, except for the jigsaw puzzle of languages from the last of the fisherman in the port, and the ringing of church bells. 

Nile was grinning. Her eyes roved around behind her sunglasses as she tried to take it all in, and it wasn’t till Andy put her hand on her shoulder that she realized she’d stopped moving. 

“Worth the drive?” The older woman chuckled, a smile on her own face. 

“Depends on how much further we have to go.” she replied, even though she could happily wander the streets for hours. 

Andy scoffed, rolling her eyes behind her Ray Bans with a smirk, “Well, if _someone_ would keep moving, we’d be there sooner.” 

She had always assumed Malta would be like the other old, _old_ European cities she’d seen— winding, narrow streets, impossible to navigate. The cobblestone streets of Valletta, though, were laid out in a grid of neat blocks. For a painful moment, it almost reminded her of home. Her mom always said that it was impossible to get lost in Chicago. That the streets wouldn’t let you. 

Every once in a while, Chicago would hit her like a punch. She woke up and still couldn’t believe this was her life now. On the particularly bad days, she could spend hours looking around the Southern European landscape racing by her window, and not even be able to muster an appreciation for its beauty— all she could think about was their cramped apartment in West Garfield, with its low brick buildings and chain link fences. She missed how the radiator rattled in winter, and the way her mom would hum a quiet hymn to herself as she cooked. 

Sometimes, Nile wanted to follow the grid all the way back home. She wanted to argue about who had to chop the onions at dinner time, and stand at the counter while Mom cooked— sometimes, she’d give up every mountain valley and quaint, sunny village in all of Europe for one more day of midwestern winter. 

After Dad died, her pastor had said that grief was natural. That it would hurt for a while, and then it would become waves, washing over you until they petered out to a faint trickle. Grief only got further away, eventually leveling out— until another tide swept in. It never _healed,_ grief wasn’t meant to heal. 

Her pastor said that that was where God’s guidance came in. That He would help ease Nile’s heart, and remember her Dad— his smile, his laugh, the sound of Marvin Gaye through the staticky radio, dancing with Mom on a random Tuesday before he shipped out again. 

She _still_ remembered those things, so clearly. 

Nile paused in the street, taking a deep breath of the sea salt on the breeze. Now her whole life was something she grieved, it would get further away. What if she didn’t want it to fade? She'd rather miss them all forever than forget them. Like Andy had. 

Nile rolled her shoulders and tried to shake it all away, coming back to the beautiful city with its beautiful weather. Andy was getting smaller and smaller in the distance. 

It was probably damn near impossible to get lost in Valletta, too, but Nile was sure the streets would let her if Andy wasn’t leading the way. She walked like she knew the path from before the roads were even there, her backpack hefted over her shoulder. Nile jogged a couple steps to keep up as the road took a steep incline, and then a sharp right turn. 

Until then, the blocks of apartments and homes lining their walk were tall, built up over centuries with overhanging, covered balconies jutting out against the blue sky. Towards the end of the side street where they had turned, though, there was a slope down the hill. The houses slowly got shorter and smaller. Tree roots poked out between cracks in the cobblestones, and branches of green leaves sprung up from behind the packed beige walls. The decline of the hill made them look like the road just dropped off into the distant sea—

“—ile, _Nile!”_

She whirled around to see that she and Andy weren’t side by side anymore. There was a wry smirk on the older woman’s face, leaning against one of the many door jams on the block. “This is us.” She pointed blandly, before knocking with three, sharp raps of her knuckles. 

The door was painted a soft blue, a little chipped and worn, but still looking a solid century newer than everything around it. Nile studied it as they waited. 

And waited. 

Andy knocked again, a little harder— hard enough to get an angry exclamation of Maltese from a sleepy, scowling neighbor. 

She was about to knock _again_ when the door finally swung back to reveal Joe, ruffled and warm with sleep. Nile pressed her lips together to try and restrain her amused grin, but she knew she failed. 

“You’re early.” He grumbled. 

His tight curls stuck out in haphazard tufts, and his charcoal stained fingers scratched absently at his beard as he frowned at them. He was failing like Nile, lips wobbling as he fought the urge to grin, but it twinkled in his eyes. Joe looked good— even fresh out of bed, unprepared and unwashed, and only clothed from the waist down. He was tanned, with a smattering of freckles across his nose. There was an ease in his energy that Nile had scarcely seen from him before. He looked a lot more like the man Nile had met in that church, before everything fell to shit. 

Something warm and soft radiated in her chest, and Nile realized how much she’d missed him. Joe wasn’t just a kind stranger, or _misery loves company_ anymore— he was her friend. 

Like he was reading her mind, he broke into a sunny grin, reaching out and tugging her into a hug. 

Nile let herself giggle as he held her tight, squeezing back. It had been a long three months since the Merrick job, and a longer two since Nicky and Joe finally left Provence for Malta. It had been fine without them— Nile and Andy got along great— but there was something in their presences that was sorely lacking when they left, leaving the two women a little listless. 

He studied her as he pulled back, looking her over like he was scanning for injuries before he turned to Andy. 

“You don’t even deserve a hug—“ he scolded, already wrapping her in his embrace, “— I should leave you out here for the crime of disturbing us.” 

Andy was beaming, laughing as Joe spun her through the door, leading the way into the little house. 

“I’m surprised that you answered— I expected Nicky.” 

“Hm, I woke up early to sketch him. He looks so radiant in the dawn. But usually you’d be right— it’s a miracle he’s still asleep, with your racket.” Joe teased, “I’m trying to get him to sleep more.” 

The short front hall was still dark with the last of the night’s shadows, but Joe led the way into a cozy back room, flooded with morning sunlight. The back doors were flung open, and Nile could glimpse the trees that she had seen poking out the top of the garden wall before. They were heavy with orange fruit that matched the bowl on the kitchen counter. 

The walls were a soft white, reflecting the sun’s rays and turning the whole space to gold. The dark wood of the rafters reminded her of Provence, and she smiled. 

“Did you build this one, too?” She asked while the coffee percolated. Joe hummed, shaking his head. 

“The foundations of this one might even predate us.” He replied, choosing a tangerine from the bowl and digging his thumbs in to peel it. “We didn’t buy this place until after the Second World War.” 

“From the way you guys talk about it, I thought it must’ve been your oldest place— your first place together, or something.” 

“Nicky had a hell of a time in the Pacific theatre. And then as a medic in France through the end of the war.” He popped a segment of fruit into his mouth, “We were separated for a long time— longest ever, actually.” 

“You didn’t serve in World War 2?” That didn’t sound right to Nile. They _fought for what they thought was right,_ they were _an army of four—_ but Joe skipped out on the biggest war in modern history?

“Joe and I worked in intelligence.” Andy cut in while Joe chewed, “More covert work.” 

Nile just nodded, swallowing the thousands of questions bubbling up her throat and filing them away. It was too early. 

_You ask one question, and suddenly everything‘s a story—_ she thought, _How do people not immediately know you guys are old people? I feel like I’m talking to my grandma._

Not that she was complaining. She had loved her grandma’s stories— it was why she loved history, and wanted to study art. Her stomach clenched, and not for the first time, she remembered what Andy had said— _I don’t remember what my mother looked like… or my sisters…_

Nile didn’t want to forget her grandma! She didn’t want to forget a minute— the Sundays in the kitchen after church, the smell of earl gray and Werther’s caramels, the peace lily she watered every day after Dad’s funeral.

Hearing stories of all the things they remembered was reassuring. At least they didn’t forget _everything._

“Nile?” Joe’s voice shook her out of her thoughts, “Coffee?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” She took the mug with a deep breath, “Sorry, I’m still a little tired. You were a spy?” 

Joe smiled like he understood something unspoken, nodding “Yes. Many times in my life— but I’d never been away from Nicky like that. Three _years,_ it was Hell.” 

“It was Hell to listen to your pining.” Andy nudged his shoulder, smiling into her mug. 

“You barely even saw me!” He tsked, wagging a finger at her before turning back to Nile, “Anyway, a couple years after the war was over, we decided we needed a break. We picked Malta simply for its position— smack in the middle of the sea between Italy and Tunisia. We didn’t expect to love it as much as we did, but it was a buyer’s market, and…” he started out shrugging, looking down at the orange in his hand, but when he glanced up, he did a double take. 

At first, she thought he was looking at _her,_ but he couldn’t be. His gaze was too soft, his smile too charmed, his quiet laugh too familiar for it to be for her. Andy snorted into her mug, her eyes doing that thing that you would expect of a person seeing a baby animal. 

“Good Morning, my heart.” Joe cooed, his smile beaming. 

Nile looked over her shoulder, and sure enough, Nicky was at the foot of the stairs on the other side of the living space. 

He was a _sight,_ all ruffled and tanned, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He was wearing thin shorts and a singlet tank top that must have been Joe’s. It was stretched out just the littlest bit too much for his lanky frame, but what really made Nile choke on her coffee was his _hair._

“Finally!” Andy greeted as Nicky plodded his way through the living room to the kitchen, “After 196 _years,_ the long hair returns!” 

Joe grinned and Nicky chuckled, running a hand down his face like he could scrub the sleepiness away. “Yes, and it needs to be washed.” 

He came up beside Nile with one of his big, warm hands squeezing the back of her neck, wrapping her into a hug that smelled like detergent and Joe’s sandalwood cologne. She squeezed him around the waist, her smile curving her lips without a thought. He shuffled around the room to Andy, murmuring something soft and Italian that made her smile before hugging her too. 

Andy curled her hand around the back of his head, petting through the long strands and humming in contentment. Joe grinned, his eyes catching Nile’s across the counter. 

“When my Nico first cut his hair, I think Andy was more bereft than I was.” He said it like a stage whisper, making Nicky snort, unwinding from his friend’s arms while Andy lazily flipped Joe off. 

“Don’t worry, Andy, Joe made a very persuasive argument for keeping the hair.” Nicky grinned, turning to the man in question and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He slipped around him behind him, looping his arms loosely around his waist. Nicky sandwiched himself between Joe’s back and the kitchen counter, making the other man hum and lean into him. He peeled off a slice of tangerine and held it over his shoulder for his love. “And yet, I still woke up alone in our bed,” he tsked, even as he took the offered bite, “very _rude,_ Yusuf.” 

“And what did you expect of me? We have _guests,_ Hayati.” 

“You could have woken me and _told me_ we had guests ." He shook his head at Nile in a universal gesture that said _can you believe this guy?_ Even while Joe did the same thing, rolling his eyes in a long suffering way toward Andy. 

There was some grumbled Italian kissed into Joe’s neck. It made his eyes crinkle as he laughed, holding out another orange slice. 

Nile rolled her eyes fondly, sipping her coffee and wondering how these two soft, sleepy men could possibly be the hardened warriors of epic battles and old paintings. 

“I was just telling Nile about how we came to own this palace.” Joe said, slipping out of Nicky’s arms so he could pour another cup of coffee. Nicky hummed, nodding. 

“You told her how much I hated it here at first?” He smirked, just a tiny flicker of a thing as the other man pressed a mug into his hand. 

Every few minutes with these people, Nile felt like she heard a record scratch. There was always something deeper with them, even in a nondescript little house on the edge of the sea. 

“You _hated_ it?” Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline, “But I thought this was your spot.” 

“It is now, but there was baggage for me in Valletta that we didn’t know until we got here.” He shrugged, “By then, I figured it must be fate— God telling me that it was time to fight that particular demon.” He looked over at Joe, whose smile had gone tender. Andy nodded at the dregs of her coffee, leaning into Nicky’s side. “The core of this life is learning to change, Nile.” 

The silence hung heavily for Nile, but she had the feeling that this was normal for the others— it had been in Provence, too. Every once in a while, something jogged a memory and pulled a feeling or a thought right out of the depths of them. It didn’t matter what time of day, or where in the world they were, sometimes things just hit them. Like Chicago. 

It was weirdly comforting.

Times like this usually meant a story, and Nile wanted to hear this one. She _needed_ to hear this one. 

“But how d’you keep changing without forgetting?” She finally asked with a voice that was smaller than she wanted it to be. 

Nicky smiled. Like Joe, he looked softer than he had in the church or the lab or in Provence. There was an ease in the set of his shoulders, and the circles under his eyes were less like bruises. He smiled at her, and she almost believed that he was a 30 year old man. 

How did they _do that?_ Be so impossibly ancient while also acting their age? Be her friend, while also being like her brother, and her grandma all at once? 

“I’ll trade you a story for an onion.” He said. Andy snorted, and Joe choked on his orange slice. 

“What?” 

“I’m going to make omelettes— chop half an onion and mince some garlic for me, and we can chat about Valletta.” 

She smiled, “Deal.” 

* * *

“Aren’t omelettes usually a ham and cheese type of situation? Why d’you need an onion?” 

“First lesson of Italian cooking: onions and garlic make everything better. Besides, Joe can’t eat pork.” 

With one last sip of her coffee, she turned to squint at Nicky. “Omelettes are French.” 

He only shrugged, a minuscule little smirk on his face, “Maybe so, but I am Genoese, and therefore, Italian.” 

Nile huffed a laugh, rolling her eyes. 

Through the little window over the kitchen sink, Nile could see Joe and Andy in the walled garden. Joe was knelt down, puttering inside the pots and beds with gloved hands, a linen button down keeping the sun off of his shoulders. Andy was sitting in a rickety chair that screamed _flea market_ , with the widest smile that Nile had seen on her. She had fresh coffee and a wide brimmed sun hat that was either the wildest thing she owned or had been borrowed from Joe and Nicky— which would almost be better, in Nile’s opinion. She nodded along with whatever Joe was gesturing about. 

Nicky huffed a laugh as he looked over her shoulder, handing her a peeled onion and a knife. “We don’t usually keep gardens— it’s not conducive to moving like we do. But here, Joe took to it so easily. We planted hearty herbs and shrubs, and those beautiful trees. They are suited to the area, and will thrive without constant tending.” He was steady and quiet, pulling out a small pan from the cupboard with practiced ease, “He has to do so much pruning every time we come here, but he loves it. Calls it his _contribution to feeding us._ I don’t mind as long as he stays away from the stove— Joe could burn water.” he chuckled, his smile growing into one of his rare grins. 

“He makes a mean cup of coffee, too.” She countered, teasing. 

He gave her a sly smirk that twinkled in his eyes, “Why d’you think it’s called a _cup o’ joe?”_

She paused where she was, eyes wide as she weighed the odds that Nicky was making fun of her— “That… that can’t be real.” 

Nicky just winked at her, and started grating a block of cheese. 

For a moment, the quiet of the morning was only broken by birdsong and Joe’s soft, unintelligible voice outside. The peace of it all already felt familiar— after the months in Provence and all of the quiet mornings that they’d passed together, Nile was a little startled to find that she felt at _home_ wherever these people were. 

The sharp burn of onions hit her eyes and nose, and she blamed it for the way her vision swam. It wasn’t because of the sorrowful pang of feeling safe and at home, chopping onions with someone that wasn’t her mom. It was too early to cry like that. 

“This feels like a pretty well-loved house, considering that you used to hate it so much.” She finally said, aching for a distraction. 

Nicky nodded, humming. “Yes. This is one of my favorite places now. This is where I finally shook off the last of my past. Well, made peace with it, at least.” 

“You didn’t finish making peace with your past until the 1940s?” 

“Sometimes, I still think I haven’t— but that is the blessing and the curse of remembering.” He shrugged. “Valletta was the home of a military order of Catholic knights called the Order of Saint John. This was sometime in the 1500s, but the city is still named for one of their commanders.” 

She paused with her onion, wondering if she’d missed something. She didn’t get it. “What does that have to do with you?” 

“I was a part of them.” the words were blunt and concise, as though he was reciting something he still had to remind himself of sometimes. “They originated in Jerusalem, out of an order of monks and laymen that ran a Christian hospital for pilgrims to the Holy Land. I was sent to them just weeks before the siege was to take place. And I participated in those terrible events that led to the order becoming known as the Hospitaller Knights.” There was a beat of quiet that hung in the air, and Nile glanced back to see that Nicky had paused to look out at Joe. 

There was something in his eyes that was too deep for her to process. Something old and pained, but more than that. It was like when someone took a scar and turned it into a tattoo. When someone took ownership of the thick-skinned reminder of a wound and turned it into something beautiful. 

Just when she thought she might have to shake him out of it, Nicky sighed and flicked his gaze over to her. “The Order of St. John built a lot of this city. When we first came to Valletta, I felt strangled by them. The buildings they built, the roads under my feet, the memories of who I was when I was ready to _murder innocents—_ that order of so-called Christians had gone on from where I left them and continued to claim non-existent rights to God’s earth.” 

“Did Joe change your mind? Why did you even buy this place?” 

“Because Joe said that it made him think of me.” He chuckled, abandoning the cheese entirely to gaze out the window. “I thought he was crazy, but when I saw it, I understood. We had to walk past the pockmarked streets and the bombed out buildings from the air raids in the war— many of those buildings were the shells of ones built by those knights. All around this little house, there were ruins, but not a single window was broken. It was small compared to everything around it, and old, and abandoned— but it was good, and it outlasted the bombs that took down the grand buildings of the Hospitaller Knights… that’s what Joe said, anyway. And I’m a sucker for his pretty words.” He was looking at her now, she could feel it as she chopped her onion, trying to piece together his words with a furrowed brow. “Nile, just because things change in meaning for you does not mean you will forget them.” 

His hand covered hers on the handle of her knife, gently guiding her to set it down and turn her to face him. Nicky’s hair was falling in his eyes and his lips had a slight twist that felt sympathetic, but his gaze was too penetrating to be anything less than urgent. 

He held both her hands in his, and she felt like her pastor was trying to explain grief to her all over again. 

“Some memories you can choose to keep, but some choose you. I remember every bloody, horrible moment of the Siege of Jerusalem, and who I was then. I have held a thousand funerals for who I used to be— I have changed, Nile. But I have not forgotten.” 

“But _how?_ What about the ones you chose? How do you choose to keep a memory? Andy doesn’t even remember her family— do you?” 

Nicky’s mouth was open as if he was about to keep talking, but then it shut with an audible click. He blinked a couple times as if he didn’t know what to say, and Nile remembered what he’d said back in Scarborough. The last time he spoke to Booker. 

_I had no family before I died… The only family I’ve had is this one._

“I-I’m sorry, Nicky. I forgot what you said…” 

“It is fine, Nile.” He squeezed her hands, shaking his head like he was clearing cobwebs. “It’s rarely painful anymore. I do remember, though— only vague recollections of the people that raised me in the abbey, and my tutor, and the vows I took. Even my mother… but it’s more important to me to remember the love and the lessons after my death— Joe, Andy, Quynh, you, even _Booker.”_ He held her hands to his chest like even this was a precious memory to cherish, sparing her a smile, trying to get her to shake the last of her embarrassment away. 

“I keep journals.” 

“Huh?” 

“The answer to your other question— I keep journals.” He said, matter-of-fact as he let go of her hands and reached around her to grab her cutting board, “I was blessed with an education in the abbey, I have known my letters since childhood. I didn’t start writing, though, until after my death, the siege, and Joe. Over the centuries, I’ve compiled so many notebooks— they were hard to come by, in the beginning.” Nile just watched while Nicky melted together butter and olive oil, adding the onions and garlic and making the pan hiss. Finally, he looked back to her with a mild expression. “You can’t remember anything _perfectly,_ Nile. There are journals I have lost, and old ones that have fallen apart. But some I have continued to transcribe from Latin, to Arabic, to Genoese, Italian, English— Booker even tried to digitize them, but Andy wouldn’t let us.” 

He shrugged, and it felt so terrible, simultaneously underwhelming and overwhelming to Nile. He chronicled his _endless_ life. How did he choose what was worth continuing to write about? Which ones were gone? How did he not guard them like a damn dragon’s hoard 24/7, desperate to keep his life in his hands? 

“That’s it?” She hoped it didn’t sound mean, but Nicky didn’t look offended. 

“Yes.” 

He just continued sweating the contents of the pan, adding finely chopped herbs while Nile felt her world spinning— life was so enormous. 

Life was enormous and overwhelming, death was so far away but so _constant,_ and Nile wasn’t sure if she could describe her mother in writing if she sat with a pencil all day long. 

The kitchen smelled like onions and butter, and it felt like _home,_ but what words were there for that? 

He got out another pan as if they’d been chatting about the weather, but the air was permeated by a deep sense of _care_ that only mixed with the smell of cooking and made her think more of home and _Mom._ Nicky pulled her close, and she realized after the fact that she must have sniffled, her eyes going misty and hot. 

She couldn’t blame onions this time, so she resigned herself to curling in tight to her friend’s chest, letting him squeeze her while she blinked away the tears. 

“It’s too early for this. I’m sorry.” She croaked, scrubbing her hand down her face as she reluctantly pulled away. Nicky shook his head. 

“There's no such thing— when you’ve been around as long as we have, those things don’t really apply anymore.” The onions sizzled in the pan, and Nicky swiped away a single tear that slipped down her cheek. “Would you like a distraction?” 

She only nodded— _yes, God,_ she wanted a distraction. 

Nicky hummed quietly. “Crack some eggs for me, then. You’ll feel better once you eat something.” 

She hummed in turn, her mind swirling with questions that she could barely parse out. The productive, repetitive action of picking up an egg, cracking it against the side of a ceramic bowl, and slowing filling that bowl— one egg, then two, then three and four— started to clear her head. 

“You said that you remember your mother?” She finally choked out, clearing her throat. 

Nicky nodded, prepping a second pan while Nile whisked up the eggs in the bowl. But he didn’t say anything else. 

“What was she like?” 

That was the thing that gave her friend a moment's pause. “I didn’t know her— not like that, at least. That story is… it’s a whole other onion.” His lips twisted sadly, “She did everything in her power to keep me safe, though, knowing we could never really know each other.” 

“My mom did everything she could for me, too.” 

“I keep a journal for her— maybe that can be the first story you write, Nile. The story of your parents and how they cared for you.” His voice was quiet, nearly swallowed by the pop and crackle of cooking eggs as the first omelette went into the pan. “I’ll tell you about mine, you tell me about yours?” 

“Sounds like a date.” It felt less insurmountable, the idea of doing it together. “Where— where d’you keep them all?” 

Nicky turned his penetrating gaze on her again, but he didn’t judge the lost look that was definitely still lingering there in her face. “Most of them are here, in the cellar. We did our best to insulate the space to keep any more of them from decaying. It still happens, but…” he shrugged, trailing off, studying her. “You aren’t alone in grieving, Nile. Every time one of them crumbles or fades, I feel as if a piece of me is breaking away. That’s why we tell each other these stories— to know we remember them, for ourselves and each other.” 

Talking to Nicky was a strange and wonderful thing— of all her new friends, he was by far the weirdest. He could be a relaxed old friend, the personification of Catholic Guilt, somebody’s grandmother, some long lost cryptid— Nicky was weird. But he saw so much, and understood _so much,_ and talking to him about the important things could be a balm on a wound in the right moment. He didn’t shy away from the tough topics, and he asked big questions. He was straightforward without being blunt, and empathetic without pity. 

She felt steadier with him, having talked to him. It didn’t take the grief away, but she felt somehow lighter. Like the dawn that she’d crossed the sea on that morning. 

She whisked up some more eggs, and let herself feel welcome, even if the smell of onions wasn’t accompanied by her mom’s church lady perfume, and the kitchen she was in wasn’t in West Garfield. Half the world away, she let herself drink some more coffee, and thought about what it meant to change. 

* * *

There were few things that Nile loved as much as a good sketchbook. She used to bug her mom, running around Borders bookshop with her brother, getting lost in the smell of freshly sharpened pencils and newsprint. There had been a whole section of sketchbooks and journals and art supplies. There were big coffee table books filled with glossy images from the old masters. 

They would spend hours there when school was out for the summer, and whenever Dad was deployed. Grandma would walk them around the store, and flip through the pages with Nile and Elijah while Mom finished her shift. 

It was just a week or two after Dad’s funeral when Grandma finally tore her eyes away from her son’s prayer card and elected that they had stayed in that apartment long enough. She strong armed them both into their coats, and marched them down the street to drop off lunch to a bereft widow who couldn’t take another day off work. 

They had browsed the aisles for a sense of familiarity that day. Nile looked at the empty sketchbooks and tried to think about all the things they could be filled with, like she had a million times before.

But that time, it was like her brain was blocked. She sat on the carpet, and she clutched at the spines of the art books and didn’t know how to say what was wrong; that she felt _changed._ Grandma found her there, and pried her hands off the shelf she was holding herself up on— a book fell to the floor, stuck to her fingers. 

They sat in the aisle with that book— embossed with the name _Michelangelo_ in raised gold letters— and Grandma called it a sign from heaven. That Nile’s dad wanted her to keep dreaming and being creative. That the haze would lift one day, and Art would guide her path. 

She bought Nile the sketchbook from the top shelf— the one she always looked up at, but couldn’t reach. She bought her some nice pencils, and that book about Michelangelo. She bought some stuff for Eli, too, but Nile couldn’t remember what it was. The bill might have set her back a bit, but she’d never say. 

That sketchbook was still in her childhood bedroom in that apartment now, sitting on her desk by the window that never fully closed. Now that she was “dead”, she wondered what would happen to it. 

She wasn’t sure when she’d stopped drawing— between grandma’s funeral, AP courses and basic training? She wished she’d taken _that_ sketchbook with her, though, knowing now that she could never go back to get it. 

She knew how important a sketchbook could be. So, all throughout their month in Provence, she never asked Joe about the battered old journal in his hands. She wasn’t going to ask _what’re you drawing?_ Or _can I see?_ It wasn’t her place, especially not with the look that seemed permanently etched into his face while he did it— the way he studied Nicky, and studied the page, and studied Nicky again. 

Everything had still been so fresh, then. The events at the lab had left the two men jumpy and clinging to each other. Booker’s betrayal had left them leery of others, too, even if they tried to make her feel welcome. Nile didn’t talk much in those first couple weeks. She didn’t even mention all her years of drawing and reading about art, or how the marines was supposed to pay for her art history degree. 

Things were slow and mild in Malta, though, once breakfast dishes were washed— Nicky had been right: onions and garlic made everything better. The sun beat down on them, and her friends looked more at peace, and the birds sang in the garden. It was good. She didn’t spare a single thought for her dream degree or her old Michelangelo book. She was busy digesting what Nicky had said, and thinking about the small, bright home they’d made out of the shadows of their pasts. 

It was a pretty relatable thing, in the long run, to feel like the one thing left standing after all the bombs fell. 

The sketchbook from Goussainville and Provence sat benignly on the kitchen counter throughout breakfast without Nile even glancing at it. It must’ve been right there from the moment she and Andy arrived, even though she completely missed it. She could picture Joe that morning— sleepy, backlit by the early morning sun, and disgruntled by their knocking— setting down the leather bound book as he went to shut them up before Nicky woke up. 

It wasn’t until she was helping bring in a fresh harvest of tangerines from the garden that she really noticed it. It was right next to the colorful fruit bowl, hidden just a little under the lip of it. A stub of a charcoal pencil was lovingly placed on top of it, and she smirked. 

“This pencil looks like it could be as old as you.” She joked, holding it up to her friend’s tanned and freckled face. 

He laughed, grinning. _“That,_ Nile, is one of my favorite pencils. Bought it and a few others in a tiny shop in Palermo— it’s the last one. The shop’s closed, so I savor it, only using it when I need the _best_ shadows.” 

“Like Nicky sleeping in the dawn?” She joked. 

“Exactly.” He beamed, picking up the book and eagerly flipping through the pages until he found the latest sketch, _“Look_ at him— he was so radiant, I couldn’t fall back to sleep. I had to grab my best pencil.” 

It was beautiful. For all the charcoal smudged into the page, it still looked clean and crisp. The bare bones of the room were established in the background— the vague approximation of a wall, the window and an open door with flowing curtains. She could tell that light was pouring in, that the sun was obscuring the details as it lit the space, but the man in the bed was detailed and clear. Nicky’s form was unmistakable, slack with sleep and drawn with such care where he laid sleeping on his side, facing his artist. Sheets draped over his bare waist and his hair fell around his forehead. He was lit from behind, glowing around the edges and shadowed where Joe could see him. It was all unfairly alluring. Joe was right— he was radiant. 

“You’re very talented.” She finally said, more breath than words. She itched for a pencil of her own for the first time in years. 

Joe gave her that smile that said he knew something unspoken, eyes glittering and soft, crinkled in the corners. “Thank you. You can look at some of them, if you want— they all have stories to tell.” 

“And you remember them all?” 

“More or less.” He shrugged “I remember the important things.” 

She nodded, “Important things like Nicky asleep on a Sunday morning?” It was meant to be teasing, like before, but Joe only nodded, completely serious. Nile looked back down at the drawing, and then flipped back through the last few pages. All of them were of Nicky— in bed, in the kitchen, in the garden. All of them were sun drenched, with tenderness in every line. Sometimes he was laughing and grinning, or smiling those small, quiet smiles, looking up at his artist with bright eyes. She felt like she knew what Joe was going to say, was just clicking two and two together when he came up beside her and smiled down at the book. 

“The most important things are sometimes what other people would consider _the little things.”_ He said, proving her right, “But when you live like we do, for as long as we do, you know different.” 

Gently, he took the book from her hand and set it on the counter. For a second, Nile wondered if she’d overstepped, but when she turned to look at her friend, he was still smiling softly.

“Can I show you something?” He asked. 

If he had asked her that when she landed in Paris all those months ago— still thinking that she’d been pretty much kidnapped— Nile wouldn’t have followed Joe to the end of the block, much less to the door down under the staircase. The steps descended into the darkness, but Nile wasn’t the same person she had been in Paris. She let her friend lead the way. 

The cellar didn’t look anything like the simple, hand dug room under the Provence house. Joe flicked a switch at the bottom of the stairs and illuminated a large space that expanded out into an area that must’ve been under the garden. The ceiling was held up by sturdy pillars, and the walls were lined with clay tiles, baked and glossed to a soft sheen— it was effectively waterproofed, protected from the elements, and it was just a little bit chilly. 

“This is where Nicky keeps his journals, isn’t it?” She asked, already knowing the answer as she trailed along behind Joe, passing what looked like filing cabinets and big bookcases from thrift shops and office depots. All of them were filled with books, labeled by time periods and geographical regions— and a whole section marked with nothing more than a winky face. 

“Nicky’s journals are all over there,” he gestured toward the bookcases, “my own sketchbooks and journals are scattered around, too— we’re not as organized as we look. Sometimes we’re both writing and drawing the same thing, and we try to keep those things together, so we can remember them together.” He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling a little sadly as he turned at their destination. 

It was a simple portfolio, up on a high shelf. It was old, tanned in fine leather that had gone softer with age instead of cracking. Joe tugged it down and a fine mist of dust showered down on them, making them cough. He chuckled, waving away the cloud with an apologetic shrug, “I guess it’s been awhile since I was down here.” 

Nile answered him with a small grin of her own, smelling the familiar newsprint and charcoal, ink and oil paints in the slightly stuffy air— like if Indiana Jones found an ancient Borders bookshop. 

_One day,_ she tried not to think about, _Borders really would be ancient._ Not a single person alive would know what Nile meant if she talked about the towering shelves to an eleven year old’s eyes, or remember just how hard one woman had to work stacking shelves and fighting for promotions to raise her family. 

It wasn’t a welcome thought. _One day, no one but me will know my mom even existed. My grandma, my brother, my dad—_

“Nile.” A charcoal smudged hand reached out and took hers, gentle and slow, like Joe expected her to pull away. It jerked her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to meet his gaze. 

Maybe she could blame the red in her eyes on the dust in the air, but she didn’t try. She let herself sniffle, and watched her friend’s smile fade into something sadder and quieter. He had lifted the unwieldy package onto the closest surface— a small coffee table that must’ve come from the garden’s _flea market_ set— and looked almost surprised when she squeezed the hand holding hers on top of the leather. 

“Sorry, it… it smells like home down here.” She made herself smile, wobbly and less reassuring than she wanted it to be. He just nodded. Joe had a knack for understanding things unspoken— maybe it was a side effect of living Nicky, who was so often quiet, or maybe it was just _Joe,_ but it loosened something tense in Nile’s chest to know she didn’t have to say anything more. “Why’d you bring me down here?” 

That brought a little bit of the spark back into him. “Andy told me you recognized her friend, Rodin. D’you like art?” 

“Yeah— I drew all the time when I was a kid.” She stumbled around the words, not sure why she felt caught out by the statement. Joe was nodding, still holding her hand. “My grandma, she bought me a book after my dad’s funeral… it was about Michelangelo. And I just loved it.” 

Joe waited patiently, studying her as she spoke, but it wasn’t piercing the way Nicky’s sometimes was. It felt softer, and more gentle. Like the sun warming up the garden, urging it to grow. 

“I didn’t really start painting people until the Renaissance. There were so many incredible minds and talents, the energy was electric— I started commissioning paintings of Nicky, not just to see his beauty on the canvas, but so I could watch these geniuses at work.” He grinned, “We made many friends, sitting for hours in those sessions, and eventually, I bought myself some good parchment and took out my charcoals— I started learning outright.” 

“You didn’t draw before then, though?” She cut in, budging into her friend’s effervescent storytelling. She wouldn’t be able to get a word in any other way. 

He paused to shake his head, “No, I had drawn landscapes and studied geometry at university— painted calligraphy and written poetry, too, but never figurative drawing. I tried a few times, but nothing seemed to look right.” That was when he let go of her hand to pat the leather folder on the table. “It wasn’t until we found ourselves in the cradle of such decadent art that I decided to try again— d’you know why, though?” 

“Because Nicky looked particularly beautiful in the sun that morning?” 

That got a full bark of laughter out of him, and Nile couldn’t help her grin. _“Yes._ He’s like that _every_ morning, Nile. Yes, but also no.” 

Joe took a deep breath, still chuckling as he glanced down at the portfolio on the table. He slipped back into that quiet, contemplative energy that he had, running his fingertips along the stitched edges. The smile slipped off Nile’s face, and it was her turn to ask, “Joe?” 

“By the time the Italian Renaissance had really picked up, Nicky and I had been immortal for over 300 years. He had his journals by then, and I wrote poetry and drew scenes of our travels. But while I had _tried_ to draw Nicky hundreds of times by then, I didn’t just write or draw _for him.”_ He cleared his throat and swallowed hard, taking her hand again as he met her gaze with liquid brown eyes. “I had written thousands of poems to describe my home in Tunis— the buildings, the sea, the smells; the way my sisters laughed, and my father’s voice raised in prayer, and my mother’s laugh. I had an older brother, I had a sister in law, I had nieces and nephews… by the time the Renaissance came around, I found that their faces were getting fuzzy in my mind, no matter how much poetry I wrote.” 

She was holding his hand in both of hers now, squeezing gently like Nicky had done for her over eggs and onions. She hoped it was grounding for her friend, and she swallowed the lump of emotion rising up her throat. 

“My Art is an act of love— for my Nicolò, and for my immortal family, but my _family…_ they deserve to know they are loved, too.” A tear slipped down his cheek and into his beard, and he eased open the fold of the leather to reveal the canvas beneath. “Writing, poetry, painting— these are acts of remembrance. Monuments to the people we love.” 

Inside the portfolio were sketches on paper as delicate as butterfly wings. With the most gentle, sparing brush of her fingers, Nile spread the pages to take in the elegant strokes of charcoal that had settled into the shapes of well loved people. The top one was the candid-type drawing of three people, drinking wine, breaking bread, relaxed and leaning into each other like they belonged together. Nile recognized Nicky— with his long hair back, he was practically unchanged, except for the rich fabric of his clothing. The Andy Nile knew was nearly impossible to parse out from the vibrant woman in the picture. Her hair was long and dark, piled on her head in braids, and her smile was clear in every line of her body. She was old, logically, but looked so fundamentally _youthful_ under Joe’s pencil. Beside her was a sharp, dramatic woman— she looked posed, but somehow natural. As if she was the only one who knew Joe was drawing the scene, and she was playing it all up for him. Her eyes glittered and there was a dagger’s edge in her smile, but she somehow still managed to gaze up at Andy like her love for her was the only thing she wanted to be remembered for. 

That must be Quynh. Before she became the woman in Nile’s nightmares. 

There were other drawings as well— sketches that had no doubt become paintings or sculptures or something, but if they’d been destroyed through the centuries, Nile didn’t want to know. 

It was the one full, complete painting in the leather case that made Joe grip her hand. She squeezed him until she felt his fingers squish a little in her palm, listening to him sniffle. “I don’t look at them as often as I should, I guess.” He rasped. 

The canvas was highly colored with bright jewel tones, as if Joe had restored it again and again throughout the centuries. The style wouldn’t have been out of place in the glossy books she’d poured over throughout her childhood— the pigments were rich and striking, exquisitely detailed with patterned silks and draped clothing from a time and place that had long since gone by. It was a family portrait. It rolled out to reveal an expanse of painted faces with soft brown gazes looking back at her— sisters with sweet faces, a brother with a broad grin, children running around his feet, his wife by his side. 

The woman with the warm, glittering eyes and crinkles in the corners must’ve been Joe’s mom. The man with curls sticking out from under his turban and freckles across his kind, brown face must’ve been Joe’s dad. 

“It gets further away, Nile. It really does.” Joe cut into her thoughts with a watery sigh, extricating his hand from hers to wrap it around her shoulder. “I’m not usually like this when I look at them— not anymore. But…” 

But they were all gone— and so was Quynh, and now Andy’s time was limited just like his family’s was, and Booker was exiled for the next hundred years, and he and Nicky had nearly suffered an eternity of torture. Of course Joe was trembling, holding onto Nile as he looked down at his memorial. Heat gathered in her eyes, building until her vision of the painting swam and the faces looked less like Joe’s and more like _Nile’s._ Mom and Eli, Grandma and even _Dad,_ all standing for a portrait, looking like timeless installations in one of her art history books. 

She wasn’t sure which one of them let out the first real cry. She didn’t think about whether it was too early in the day, and she didn’t think about whether it was her place to cry right now— Joe used their joined hands to pull her against him, and she didn’t try to stop his arms from wrapping around her. 

They stood there for a long few moments, and Nile knew that it was for her. Joe was rocking back and forth, smoothing his charcoal smudged hands over her back, letting her cry and be _held_ in the way that she hadn’t been ready to do until right now. He sniffled, too, his chest shuddering under her hold, but she didn’t doubt his intentions. 

Andy had brought her here when she couldn’t answer her questions anymore— when the idea of telling her about whatever little she remembered of her thousands of years of life became too hard. Nicky and Joe both took care to remember their pasts, in a way Andy never had. 

They were looking after her, all of them. They were guiding her to this point. To the edge of the sea, surrounded by art and history and people that _cared._

It felt good. It felt so _good_ to let go. 

She finally broke the hushed quiet of hitching breaths and sniffles. Her head stayed tucked into Joe’s shoulder, smelling his sandalwood and coffee and sun drenched herbs. “Thank you for showing me this. I… would you teach me?” 

That was when she pulled back to look at her friend, only to see his liquid gaze focused on his family in the painting. He tore his eyes away from the faces of his past and looked up to meet her tentative gaze, his lips curling up at the corners. 

“I’m sure we _both_ have things to teach each other.” He replied, “You love Michelangelo?” 

“He was my favorite— always makes me think of my dad.” 

Joe hummed, smiling back down at the broad, freckled face on the canvas before looking back up to her. “How about we make a date? We can look through my old poetry about my baba, and you can show me your dad. We will draw them together.” 

There was a light, expansive feeling in her chest— it had sparked while Nicky sweated onions and told her how to change while still remembering. Remembering the things that you know, the things that you love, and the things that you’ve done. It felt like prayer, whispered to God in confession and praise. There was something deeply comforting about the idea that change was not _bad._

But, looking at Joe, and seeing the paintings and sketches and long passages of Arabic poetry, she didn’t see prayer, she understood _worship._ She felt his reverence for his old and new families, and she knew that there was truth in the saying _everything changes, and everything stays the same._ He still felt waves of grief, almost a thousand years after losing his life for the first time. 

Nicky and Joe, prayer and worship— she touched the cross around her neck, fiddling with it absently as she thought— you couldn’t have one without the other. 

There was balance in Malta. There was a past, a present, and a future there, in a world that was so easy to drift away in. 

“I like that idea.” She finally replied. “I already have a date with your husband, but I’ll pencil you in.” 

Joe threw back his head and laughed, reverberating against the tiled walls, at the same time that the front door opened upstairs. 

_“Hayati,”_ Nicky’s voice called out, Andy’s unintelligible voice behind him _“Joe? Nile?— we’re home.”_

 _Home._ What a thought. It still sat oddly in her chest, but Nicky’s voice was warm and familiar. Joe beamed at the sound, listening to the footsteps creak overhead. 

“Shall we?” 

She only nodded, taking one last glance at the art Joe had shown her as he rolled up the painting and packed it away. 

They went back upstairs without a single glance back down to the cellar and its treasures. If it was her life stored away down here, Nile wasn't sure if she'd ever leave-- how quickly could she convince herself that the second she looked away, they would all disappear. Joe was stronger than that, though, or maybe just used to leaving things in safe, distant places, because he just took to the stairs, following the sound of Nicky's voice. 

The light was flicked out behind him, and he closed the door with no lingering. 

"What did you two get up to?" Joe grinned, slipping behind his love at the kitchen counter, tapping his fingertips along Nicky's hips like he could play music on them. He pressed a kiss to shell of his ear on his way to peek into the paper bag on the countertop. "You found a market? In Valletta, on a Sunday?" 

"There's a little old Jewish couple with a bakery." Andy cut in, trying and failing to remain calm as she pulled a blue pastry box and a loaf of bread out of the bag. 

Nicky's lips flickered up into one of his tiny smiles, his gaze following her before he reached down into the bag himself. "Yes, and we also found a small market attached to it. We'll have to go back tomorrow-- they're only permitted to keep very limited hours on Sundays-- but I did find a little something." And with that, he looked over to Nile. "It's for you." 

"Oh." she was about to say how sweet that was, that it wasn't necessary. She even caught herself shifting from foot to foot like an awkward kid in the sketchbook aisle she couldn't afford, and forced herself to plant her feet and shake the feeling, "Nicky, that's so--" _Oh._

It was a bound leather book. It had a soft cover that reminded her of Joe's portfolio, and little embossed flowers branded into the corners and along the spine. 

It was very beautiful, and Nicky held it out to her with his hair falling over his forehead and a twinkle in his sea green eyes. Nile was so taken aback that she almost forgot to walk forward and take it. 

She flicked through the pages and saw that it was an unlined journal with hundreds of pages to fill-- it was heavy in her hands, solid and real. This journal was real, just like her memories would still be real, even after they stopped consuming her thoughts. Just like her family would still be real, even when she was the only one who would still remember them. 

"Thank you." she breathed. She could smell the salt on the breeze from the garden, and if she listened hard, she knew she'd be able to hear the Mediterranean in the distance. 

Nile felt a ripple of emotion up and down her spine, settling in her gut and lifting her on the crest of a wave. 

It was going to be okay. 


End file.
